by Ginny Aiken
Peter did his level best to ignore the complaints. After a bit, Colley decided to change the subject, though not for the better as far as Peter was concerned.
“It’s Bountiful where we should be heading,” the ranch manager groused.
Peter kept quiet.
“And it’s not sheep rustlers you need to be looking for—”
“Colley—”
“Colley, nothing! You know you need yourself a brand-new wife, and Robby needs himself a mama. Don’t even argue, son.”
Peter kept his mouth shut and his gaze on the trail, but after a few minutes of Colley going on about it undeterred, Peter finally had to speak.
“I’ve told you”—more times than Peter wanted to count—“I’ll not be wedding again.”
Colley snorted—again, a frequent response, to be sure. “I hear there’s plenty of single ladies down to Bountiful these days. Easy on the eyes, too. I reckon you can sweeten that sour disposition of yours some, clean up good, and rope one of ’em into marrying up with you. I’m sure a smart one will, seeing as you’re decent and hardworking and sober, too. I figure the right woman’ll even come on up here summers with you.”
One could always count on Colley’s stubbornness once a notion overtook common sense. There was no arguing, so Peter gave the only logical reply. “I have nothing more to say.”
“Nope, but I reckon Robby does.”
Peter winced. In the eight years since they first met, the crusty sheep rancher had come to know him much too well. Robby was Peter’s greatest weakness, and Colley had figured that out in no time at all. Peter knew in the hurting part of his heart how much his boy suffered from lack of a mother.
“A woman’s hand wouldn’t hurt the ranch none, neither,” Colley continued. “And I’d think a good one should cook some better’n I do. You might could consider that when you set out to hire more hands for the ranch. You really want for me to keep cooking for them? They might run off, thinking I’d put poison on their plates. And do you see them as the best sort of friends for a lil shaver like your Robert?”
Peter shrugged. “I suppose they can teach him about hard work and sheep ranching, instead of him wasting all that time reading Adele’s old books. Likely be more helpful to him in the long run.”
Colley arched a brow. “He ain’t much more’n a baby yet. Needs a mama, not learning from a bunch of scruffy ranch hands.”
Back when the drought hit, Peter had been forced to let go all the men who’d worked for him. With the ranch turning no profit, he’d had no means to pay them. In typical fashion, Colley had been too stubborn to listen to his urging, hadn’t paid one lick of attention to any reasonable argument. “I can eat beans, bacon, and biscuits just as well as you can, and you can’t run sheep all on your own,” the ranch manager had said. “I’m staying with you, son, and you can’t go changing my mind, so don’t try.”
Eventually, Peter stopped trying, grateful for the help, especially after Adele died. A few months after her death, Wade had shown up, saying he wanted to learn everything about ranching. He hadn’t asked for much more than a bunk and three squares a day. Peter hadn’t had more than that to offer—no more than to teach the young man the tough realities in raising sheep and whatever there was to eat at his table. He reckoned Wade had run from more than he’d run to, but in the time they’d known each other, Peter had found nothing objectionable about the fellow. Wade soon became a member of his odd little family.
“I’m not in the market for a wife, and that’s the end of that, Colley. Won’t do you any good to go on, but it might do us a world of good if we keep quiet and listen. We might hear something out of the ordinary. You can’t really hide a small flock of sheep too well. They make a whole lot of noise, walking around, what with lambs looking for their mamas.”
“Ha! True enough, and we’d’a heard them sheep if we were even close to—”
“Shh!” From a distance, Peter caught a hint of sound drifting against the blowing winds. A good amount of movement… more than the natural residents of the forest they’d ridden into would make. He also heard voices.
And, faint though it was, a lamb’s baa.
Chapter 4
As he drew closer to the sound of the sheep, Peter picked out two distinct men’s voices, neither of which he could identify. A scrap of wool on a dead branch at the edge of the trail solidified his determination to retrieve his property.
What would he find when he reached the rustlers? How many men were involved? Could he and Colley handle them? And how were his sheep? He wasn’t as worried about the ones that had been rustled the night before, but rather the ones that were taken a while earlier. Had they been fed and watered properly? They were ready for shearing. Had their fleeces been damaged?
At his side, Colley grunted.
Peter glanced at his ranch manager. Colley pressed a finger to tightly compressed lips then jabbed a sharp chin toward the right branch of the slight fork in the trail ahead. Peter had never gone this far up the mountain, so he wasn’t familiar with the path. He hoped they wouldn’t have much farther to go. He wanted his sheep back, safe and sound, pasturing in their meadow. He needed Colley and Wade busy helping him shear the flock’s full coats and caring for the crop of newborn lambs.
Then he heard something he hadn’t expected. A puppy barked.
“Rustlers use puppies?” he asked Colley.
Grizzled brows drew close. “I never rustled nothing, so I can’t say. Like I toldja time and time again, I don’t figure any of this as a good idea, though. It’s not too late yet. Now we know where they are, we can head back on down the mountain and fetch Marshal Blair.”
“That’s crazy. It would take us much too long. We’re going in.”
“Not before we figure out what’s happening up ahead.”
“I’ll go slow, and you’ll figure it out fast.”
Colley glared at him but said no more. Peter edged his horse forward, glad the animal had a calm, even temperament and responded to his slightest touch.
Moments later, the trees thinned a bit as they rounded the trail. A rocky shelf jutted out over the curving path, looking much like a roof above the darkened, overgrown area. Just beyond the wooded end of the trail extended a small meadow. From where they paused, Peter could see the animals that more than likely belonged with the rest of his flock. At least the rustlers had brought them to where pasture was plentiful.
“Does that look like all the ones we’ve lost?” he asked Colley.
His manager cast an experienced look over the small flock. “Looks about right. They didn’t take even half overall, so I’d say that’s likely all of ’em. Don’t look like they hit any of the other ranchers yet, either. But it’s early spring. Plenty of time for them to keep it up.”
As they surveyed the site, they heard the angry complaints of a sheep, and noticed toward the right edge of the trail, under the rocky ledge, a rough-looking stranger. He strained hard against the large ram he’d leaned against his chest, while he held the animal’s legs in a firm clasp. With clumsy, clearly inexperienced motions, another fellow jabbed away, shearing the coat in ragged strips.
The ram slithered out of the first man’s clutches.
The man hollered. “Don’t jist stand there!”
The sad excuse for a shearer dropped the shears and ran after the animal. His compatriot chased after him.
The ram ran in circles.
The rustlers chased. In circles.
The ram cut back, leading the two men in a silly parade.
Peter shut his eyes, hoping he’d merely awoken from a bad dream. When he opened them again, he realized his eyes hadn’t deceived him. It was all too true. The two fools had stolen his sheep, and now they’d driven a superb ram to distraction.
He ground his teeth, seething deep inside. Nothing had better happen to the animal due to their ignorance.
“That fool better not hurt that animal.” Furious, Colley echoed Peter’s thoughts. “I’ll not stan
d for nothing like—”
“Thought you were ready to head for Bountiful.” Peter couldn’t stop the touch of humor in spite of the situation. His immediate move to action had now been validated. “Are you ready to agree with me? That coming after the flock was the right thing to do?”
Eyes rolling, Colley kneed Sultan, a fiery although remarkably responsive stallion, forward.
“Wait!” Peter called in a loud whisper. “What’s our plan?”
“Plan? To get the sheep back where they belong, that’s the plan. What else is there to do?”
It looked to Peter as though they’d traded instincts in the blink of an eye. They’d seen the truth right before them, and now Colley’s earlier concern warred against the instinctive outrage of the ludicrous scene. In the end, though, the situation did call for a healthy measure of caution.
“Hold on,” Peter said. “Let’s watch for a short bit, get some idea of what they’re up to—other than shearing my sheep. We don’t even know how many of them are part of the scheme.”
Colley scoffed. “You didn’t seem to think that mattered much back at the camp, now did you? Besides, it don’t look like there’s more’n the two of them fools butchering that wool coat. Let’s go before they ruin any more of it.”
With the element of surprise on their side, and Colley’s pistol as well as Peter’s shotgun aimed at the clumsy shearers, Peter and the ranch manager rode forward into clear view.
Which only made the situation worse. One of the bumbling fools ran toward the woods, while the other sped toward the sheep.
As Peter took off after the one headed for his animals, he thought he heard a woman scream, “Get him, get him, get him!”
He cast a brief glance over his shoulder, but saw nothing and no one. He resumed his chase at a full gallop. The outlaw, shorter than Colley and heavier than Peter, didn’t run as fast as his pursuer on horseback. Peter caught up to him in no time. The man stumbled, and Peter drew his horse to a halt and quietly dismounted. As he grasped the man’s shirt collar with one fist, he dropped his shotgun and pulled his arm back to take a swing.
“No, no!” He heard the high-pitched voice again, as his captive struggled in his clasp. “Don’t drop the gun. He’s got one, too.”
He’d never been prone to wild imaginations or fanciful notions before. He supposed the challenge of the moment could affect him in an unexpected and unwelcome way.
The rustler caught Peter with a kick to the shin. He turned his attention back to the man, and aimed his fist square at the thief’s nose.
The high-pitched voice again rang out. “Oh, good! Hit him hard…”
Peter paused. Again.
He tightened his grasp so his prisoner couldn’t slip away, and found and took the gun at his hip. In the distance, he heard Colley’s shouts and the other outlaw’s muffled responses. It sounded as though the ranch manager had things under control on that end.
His captive shook himself, but Peter hung on.
“Let’s go.” He swooped down and picked up his shotgun before the man could respond to his abrupt movement. He shook his prisoner and pointed him toward the cave. “Don’t know what I’m going to do about all this, but I reckon I’ll think about it on the way. I have to get those animals back where they belong.”
The man let out yet another stream of curses, as he’d done from the moment he’d realized he and his partner in crime were no longer alone.
Peter pushed him forward.
In moments, he and Colley had the two thieves subdued, hands tied at their backs. The stream of foul words that continued to pour from the older outlaw’s mouth singed the cool, spring evening air.
As Peter and Colley mounted their horses and went to herd the flock toward the trail, the younger of their two captives came to a full stop. “Wait!” he called. “We cain’t be leaving just yet. We’re not… ah… all of us together.”
“What are you talking about?”
The younger man glanced toward the darkened area under the rocky overhang, a worried expression on his face, but he didn’t speak. Peter followed his gaze, and when he didn’t see anything of particular interest, he urged his horse a step toward what, on closer study, appeared to be a cave.
A dog barked inside.
True, it was the least impressive bark Peter had heard in a long time, and well muffled, too, but he had no doubt. There was a dog inside the cave. He turned to the rustler.
“I’m glad you mentioned your dog,” he said as he swung down from the saddle. “I would hate to leave the poor thing out here all alone. It wouldn’t live long on its own.”
Still, a dog didn’t explain the voice he’d heard, or thought he’d heard.
Worry pleated the young outlaw’s forehead, while the older thief stopped his curses long enough to laugh out loud. When Peter spared the two crooks a final glare as he ducked into the cave, however, neither spoke. He shook his head. Why had he bothered to look back? Livestock thieves were the lowest sorts. Who knew what mattered to them besides their unlawful gains?
Moving slowly, Peter went deeper into the cave. His eyes took a bit to adjust to the lack of light. As he went, he clicked his tongue and began to call out to the dog. “Hey, there. Where are you? I won’t hurt you. Come on out with us. We’ll take care of you.”
The dog whined, but to Peter’s ears, it didn’t sound like much of a herding dog, certainly no good working dog’s deep bark. This one’s sounded thin, spindly… maybe the animal was hurt?
He drew a deep breath, bracing for what he might find, and dropped to his knees, clicking his tongue again. If those two thieves had hurt a dog, on top of stealing his flock, why—
A small ball of white fluff tore out of the dark and ran up onto his lap.
“Oh, no!” a child cried.
A child? No… not quite a child’s voice.
What had he heard? No, no. Who had he heard?
Had he found whoever he’d heard before?
The ball of fluff on Peter’s lap stood on its hind paws, its small body stretched up so it could sniff his chest and chin. If he wasn’t mistaken, thinking back to when he lived in Ohio, this was a rich lady’s kind of pet—some fancy, French dog, playful but useless. And still a puppy, for that matter, only months old. Still, what was it doing in a cave on a mountain in Oregon with a pair of sheep rustlers? Had they stolen it, too?
Of course, the two prisoners weren’t the only ones there.
“Who are you?” he called. “Come out, or I’m coming after you.”
Silence.
With one arm, Peter scooped up the pup, who continued to nuzzle and lick his chin, quite happy to be held by a stranger. Jaw set, he stepped deeper into the dark. Someone hid back there and he meant to find whoever it was. He’d see all three of them brought to justice.
He tried again. “I said, you’d best come out now.”
A heartbeat went by.
Another.
Finally, with a slow, measured rustle of motion, a body took shape no more than six feet to his left. He fixed his gaze on the figure… then blinked. And blinked again.
He shook his head. Stared straight ahead, squinting to try and focus more clearly, certain the darkness was playing tricks with his eyes—or maybe his mind. He couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was seeing. It was impossible.
This surely had to be the single most outlandish find a body could make in a cave on a forest-covered mountain.
A lady stood before him, outfitted in tired ruffles of lacy stuff down her front, a fancy fitted orangey-buff-colored jacket with a droopy black bow over one shoulder and matching black trim down the lapels, a big full skirt made of the same stuff, and a large flood of some other dark fabric draped over an arm.
Impossible, of course. He blinked again.
Nothing changed. Again.
“He-hello,” the impossible apparition said.
Peter nearly dropped the dog.
The lady’s dog.
Because, as unlikely a
s it might be, a fancy society lady did indeed stand before him at the rear of a mountainside cave.
He drew a deep breath. He was the only man he knew who had had something like this happen to him. But he would do what he had to do, the only thing he could do.
He would take them all to his summer camp.
And he would pray.
All the way there.
Emma would never forget the first time she set eyes on Peter Lowery. Not that she’d known the sheep rancher’s name at that point. She learned it a short while later.
At first, when she heard the commotion outside the cave, her heart had leaped at the thought that help had come. But, cautious and unsure of what might await her outside, she remained frozen at the rear of the cave, her hand clutched around Pippa’s muzzle. She hoped the little dog didn’t betray their hiding place, at least, not until Emma was sure the newcomers weren’t the infamous Dwight and Tobias. If there was one thing she knew, it was that Sawyer and Ned, rough as they were, feared the other two.
She had enough wisdom to fear them, herself.
Before long, however, she realized the newcomers were strangers to her captors. She crept to the mouth of the cave, only to watch Mr. Lowery catch Sawyer and Colley chase after Ned. As soon as the newcomers had subdued the crooks, she scurried back to her spot in the back. From the hubbub taking place a few feet beyond the opening, she understood that Ned and Sawyer had suffered the same fate as she had. Since her captors had now become captives themselves, she had no idea how she might fare.
Not long afterward, Mr. Lowery’s tall, powerful frame had blocked what light came into the cave. His torso appeared as broad as the chest of Sawyer’s hefty horse, and although caution undergirded his movements, he strode with ease and a sense of command. Right away, he caught and held her attention. This wasn’t a man to ignore.
His wide-brimmed western hat obscured his features, but the rest of his clothes spoke volumes about him. While Sawyer’s and Ned’s garments had worn through at the knees and gathered abundant quantities of soil elsewhere, this man wore clean if faded denim dungarees, a blue cambric shirt open at the neck, and what looked like some kind of undergarment in a bright shade of red beneath the rest. He’d topped everything with a brown leather vest, while on his feet he wore the narrow-toed boots with the considerable heel many western men favored, since they spent so much time in the saddle.